I'm sorry, dear," the hotel manager tells me when I go to buy my beach pass. "The beach is closed until 1:00 today."
It's 7:30 a.m., day three of my four-day vacation at the Jersey shore. I've just run a strong five miles on the boardwalk. I'm hot, sweaty, and can't wait to take my cherished, morning skinny-dip in the ocean.
"What?" I ask sharply, knowing I've heard correctly.
The manager looks at me. "Well, it's Sunday," she explains. "The beach is closed for religious services."
My eye twitches; an ill wind blows through me.
I'd known this was a devout community. To be fair, I probably shouldn't even be allowed here. But that's not my focus right now. My focus is losing half of a spectacular beach day on a mini-vacation to accommodate a bunch of selfish, God-fearing, do-good-ing jerks.
I do not give voice to this. I do, however, smoulder, Linda Blair-like, until I'm amply understood.
"Okay, dear," the manager says, as if afraid I might combust. "It's not so bad. Just go down the boardwalk a ways and walk onto Asbury Park's beach. It's early; I bet you won't even have to pay to get on."
Asbury Park's beach is nowhere as nice as Ocean Grove's, and I'm appalled at being displaced. But there's no time to grouse. I have to get to a beach soon, before a nude swim becomes impossible.
Twenty minutes later finds me a few beaches down, elated to be in the water. I leap over small waves, turn my side against others. When I get to water just over my head, I slide my two-piece bathing suit off. Bouyant and cool, I float among the waves, imagining myself a waifish mermaid, raised on honey and peppermints.
After awhile, I flip over and begin the breast stroke. Push, glide. Push, glide. Again, I feel strong. The water caresses my body.
A whistle pierces the air. My head snaps toward the shore.
A man in a navy-blue uniform is pointing at me, motioning me out of the water.
That's when I realize that I'm still in Ocean Grove.
I grab for my suit. Which is the bottom piece? Which is the top? I have no idea. They're all tangled up, strings wafting this way and that, always just out of reach. I become confused. At one point in my maneuverings, an arm goes through a leg-hole and I feel a breast-pad hugging my crotch. I think I hear something rip.
Hope wanes. I wonder if God has abandoned me. I don't believe he has. If I pray, I'm certain he'll come to my aid, allow me to stride from the sea appropriately clad, my dignity intact.
"Dear God," I begin.
I take in a little salt water.
I try again. "Dear God. . ."
The uniformed man on the beach yells, "You! Out of the water! Now!" and resumes whistling.
One of the bikini strings wraps around my head.
"God," I implore. "Please. Could you help me get this motherfucking suit on?"
Imagine my surprise when God does just that -- confirming my belief, once and for all, that he doesn't mind a bare ass, a prickly attitude, or a freely spoken F-bomb.
Maybe I'll get into heaven after all.
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